Free Dead famous by Ben Elton Page B

weeks and surely Kelly couldn’t stay so happy and so sunny for ever. Before leaving the bathroom Dervla wiped the words off the mirror and blew a little kiss at her reflection. She thought that her friend the cameraman might appreciate a small friendly gesture.

DAY THIRTY-TWO. 11.35 p.m.
    C oleridge tiptoed from the kitchen into the living room with his second can of beer. Upstairs his wife was asleep. She had been asleep when he’d arrived home and would still be asleep when he left the house again at six the following morning. She had left Coleridge a note pointing out that although they lived in the same house she had not actually set eyes on him for three days. Coleridge searched out a Biro and scribbled, ‘I haven’t changed,’ beneath his wife’s message. The note would still be there the next night, only by then Mrs Coleridge would have added ‘more’s the pity’. She didn’t mean it, she liked him really, but, as she often remarked, it’s easy to think fondly of somebody you never see. Coleridge had brought home with him the Peeping Tom press pack relating to week one in the house. On the front was attached a photocopied memo written on Peeping Tom notepaper. It was headed ‘Round-up of housemates’ public/press profiles at day eight.’ The writer had been admirably succinct.
Woggle is the nation’s pet. Mega-popular.
David is the bastard. Hated.
Kelly has phwoar factor. Popular.
Dervla is an enigmatic beauty. Popular.
Layla is highly shaggable but a pain. Disliked.
Moon is a pain and not even very shaggable. Disliked.
Gazzer and Jazz liked. (Not by feminists and intellectuals.)
Sally, not registered much. When has, disliked. (Note: gay community think S. an unhelpful stereotype. Would have preferred a fluffy poof or lipstick lez.)
Hamish not registered.
    Coleridge leafed through the clippings. Most of them confirmed the Peeping Tom memo. There was, however, some discussion about the fact that House Arrest Three was defying expectations and performing much better than had been predicted.
    ‘The saggy souffle rises!’ One headline said, referring to its prediction of the previous week that souffles do not rise twice, let alone three times. This was news to Coleridge, who had not realized that when the third series of House Arrest had been announced there had been much speculation that the reality show bubble had already burst. Coleridge had presumed that this sort of show was a guaranteed success, but he was wrong. The press clippings revealed that many shows conceived in the heady days when it seemed that any show with a loud and irritating member of the public in it was a guaranteed winner had failed to live up to their promise. And at the start of week one the new series of House Arrest was confidently expected to be a big failure. But it had defied all the grim expectations, and after seven shows had been broadcast it was already doing as well as its two predecessors. Nobody was more surprised about this than Geraldine herself, something that she freely admitted when she appeared on The Clinic, a hip late-night chat show, in order to promote week two. Coleridge slipped the video into his home VCR and instantly found himself struggling to reduce the volume as the screaming, blaring frenzy of the opening credits filled his living room and no doubt shot straight upstairs to where his wife was trying to sleep.
    ‘Big up to yez,’ said the hip late-night girl, welcoming Geraldine on to the programme.
    ‘Cracking first week in the house. We like that.’
    ‘Top telly that woman!’ Said the hip late-night guy.
    ‘Respect. Fair play to yez.’
    ‘Go, Woggle, yeah!’ Said the girl.
    ‘We so like Woggle.’
    ‘He da man.’ said the guy.
    ‘Who da man?’
    ‘He da man,’ said the girl.
    ‘Woggle, he da man!’ There was much cheering at this. The public loved Woggle.
    ‘Amazing,’ said Geraldine when the cheering had died down.
    ‘I mean, I thought he would be interesting and stir things up